I Try To Embrace The Darkness In Which I Swim
by soulofair
Summary: Within the universe, there exists two hands: one being Life, the other being Death. The question is: which do we hold on to, and which do we let loose? I do not own the rights to BBC's Sherlock or the characters.


Rain, the ever-elusive rain, fell steadily in the heat of the Australian December. How they had ended up in the Outback was still uncertain, but now that they were here, it was impossible to say that they wanted to be here.

The call had come a few months earlier. It had actually been a text from an unfamiliar number, but a call to action, nevertheless. The nature of the message was rather unexpected; the news unwanted. A child was on the way, a child that was neither planned nor wanted by either parent. But, as things had gone, the child's existence was as permanent as the universe allowed, and here they were, in Australia, their lives in such a precarious position that no one could have foreseen.

Labor in this heat was very nearly a death sentence. Even in the middle of the night, the heat clung to everything it could, and being where they were, there was no chance of escaping the heat. They_ had _escaped the heat by retreating to the house. But, even if it were cooler outside, there was no chance of getting her out of the house before she would be ready to deliver. It wouldn't be safe for mother or child.

He sat out on the porch of the house, just outside the open window of the room where she was enduring the agony of childbirth. Her moans and whimpers, albeit quiet, were deafening in the silence of the Outback, rivaled only by the sounds of the dingoes, crying out into the night. The heavens above, the infinite expanse dotted with the flecks of worlds so far away. With the beginning of life just behind him, he could only imagine what life began out there.

He had never contemplated life. It had never crossed his mind to contemplate such a mundane thing. Though he had encountered many sorts of lives within his own life, it had never occurred to him that he would be capable of producing another life beyond his own, or what meaning his life had. He was always contemplating something, but unlike those who had come before him, this was never his area of focus.

The midwife stepped out onto the porch. "She's ready to deliver," she explained.

His body tensed and his gut dropped. Bile gathered at the back of his throat, but he ignored it. Slowly, hesitantly, and dreading this moment, he stood up and mindlessly followed the midwife into the room. Sweat beaded on his already sweaty brow as he came into the unaired room. The heat was unbearable, but the reality that lay before him was even more dreadful.

Fatherhood.

That was a concept that he had never considered before in his some-thirty years. He was repulsed by love or emotions or feelings or intimacy or _caring_. If he could avoid it, he would.

But, there she was, so covered in sweat that he was surprised that she hadn't shriveled to a prune, in the bed. The pregnancy had taken too much from her; her emaciated body rested in the bed, and he found it remarkable that the fetus had managed to survive. When she saw him walk into the room, she groaned and tried reaching her arm out to him. "I can't do this," she murmured as he approached the bed.

"You've gone this far," he pointed out.

"This will kill me."

There was nothing he could say in reply to that. Of course, it was a very real possibility that she might not make it through the delivery, but the midwife had insisted that she would do everything within her power to make sure that mother and child would be safe. He didn't have as much faith as this midwife, the plucky woman from Alice Springs, did. He was far too painfully realistic to have faith. Besides, what sort of faith would a man like him have any business having?

Hard labor began, taking with it the precious energy she had stockpiled for this very purpose. As labor went on, the less and less life she seemed to possess. An hour passed, and finally, the midwife instructed her to give one more push; the baby would be delivered and they could meet their child.

She did as she was told, letting out a roar of pain, strength, and passion as she did so. The baby slid out into the awaiting arms of the midwife. "It's a girl!" the midwife announced.

The new mother peered over the blanket between her legs and tried to reach out for the baby. Knowing she was far too weak to carry the child to her chest on her own, the midwife placed the child onto her mother's chest and instructed the new father to make sure that the baby didn't fall off.

Two sides of the coin were present in that room only minutes after the child's arrival. On the one hand, life, cradling the infant as if she were the most sacred thing to live. On the other hand, death, ripping the mother to pieces in the slow, tortuous process as she desperately tried to cling to life. She clung to her new daughter and the prospect of living despite the fact that her daughter was the one who signed her execution order, if not her executioner.

But, as fate is a fickle entity, her efforts were in vain, and she was soon gone, leaving only him, the midwife, and the helpless child.

The child… the tiny child whose only accomplishment was being born, and successfully taken the life of her mother, leaving her father to be the only chance she had at life. He was now the only person who could feasibly take her, that is, if he didn't want to pass her along to someone else. But she had his eyes. She had taken his eyes. And she already seemed impatient, which tested his small margin of patience. All the clues were there… for god's sake, she even had the same birthmark that he did!

He presumed that fatherhood usually didn't include the father detesting his offspring. But he did. He abhorred this infant. He hated her fingernails, the downy hair on her head. He despised her aimless efforts to move, her little cries of frustration and displeasure. He couldn't stand how she fit in the crook of his arm, how natural that felt. He couldn't love this child, especially since she had taken from him what he had only begun to love or appreciate.

When morning came to the Australian Outback, he was still holding her. The heat had broken, and a breeze had come to relieve them of their misery, blowing away the remnants of the past and ushering in the new beginning that had arrived only hours before.

She had her mother's nose, her mother's lips. She would have the wit and cleverness her mother possessed, certain to cause trouble as she got older. With her father's help, however, she would truly be a force to be reckoned with. She would counter her father during the trying years, desperately wanting to rid herself of the parent who would impede on all of her adventures and her desires, but eventually, would grow into a rational adult. Maybe she'd even manage to be a decent person.

There was no chance that her father would ever pass her along like some unwanted object. She was not up for grabs. He found it impossible that he could feel this way—he found it impossible first that he could feel, second that he could feel any amount of affection towards another human being—and was certain that fatherhood was a very plausible reality for him to exist within. Despite every indication otherwise, he was willing to be the father to his daughter.

So, while it continued to rain on the Australian Outback, while he watched as his daughter slept in his arms, the only thought on his mind— _What would John think?_


End file.
